


New Vegas: Lynx's Stories

by NoobLewds



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, F/F, Mojave Wasteland (Fallout), Original Character(s), short story collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26073781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoobLewds/pseuds/NoobLewds
Summary: A collection of short stories based in the life of a rather unique courier. Lynx is an orphan from a long dead tribe who raised herself almost all of her adult life, fending off the dangers of the wasteland and growing stronger on her own. Join her as she finds herself as a courier left for dead in the town of Goodsprings, a Brotherhood initiate,  and all manner of things through her travels.
Kudos: 1





	New Vegas: Lynx's Stories

The Mojave...

What a shithole. 

Nothing can really save itself from the scorching heat, radiation, mutated creatures, or the near insane drug addicts that appear even in the most remote of areas. All we can do is survive as long as possible. Make enough caps to keep from turning into human jerky, fill our stomachs, and buy enough lead to fend for ourselves. 

And to do just that, you couldn't get a much better career than as a courier. Of course, it wasn't that it was any easier or safer. In fact, most jobs didn't pay much, maybe a good fifty for the more discreet deliveries. But it was enough to put a roof, however rusted, over your head most nights. 

But there comes that special order you only dream and hope for. The one that will give you enough to get out of the hole, find somewhere colder with plenty of water and still have enough to kick your feet up. 

I had found myself in just that position. Years of trudging through the brahmin shit and ducking beneath bullets were about to pay off. Big time.

A full fucking five thousand caps. And that was just the deposit. Delivering would land me another six. For a little, shiny poker chip. 

Every little bit of my body was damn near buzzing, and I don't think it was from the left over Jet fumes my coworker had happily smothered himself in. Though, honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if it was part of the reason. 

Still. It was there. The excitement. 

I mean, I was just this orphan girl from some long dead tribe. The small courier "group" I walked with was nothing more than a caravan of addicts, nothing like the Mojave Express.

And then this huge job just falls into my lap, damn near literally with how fast the exchange went. 

What a fucking stroke of luck. 

Or so I had thought. 

Now I know I should have known better. Some bullshit caravan courier didn't get orders like this without a huge risk of it getting themselves killed. 

Which is the situation I've found myself in now, hands tied and mouth gagged, kneeled beside a shallow grave in some no-name ghost town cemetery. 

A small group of Khan's circled me, one still digging that grave. The others just milling about, smoking or drinking. 

What I wouldn't give for one cigarette right now, but for whatever reason I doubt that the guys who knocked me out and hog tied me would be so kind. 

And then there was this fancy little codpiece leaning on a section of riggity wooden fence, looking all fucking smug in his dumbass checkered suit. Judging by the fact that the poker chip I was delivering was in his hand, he's the guy that organized all this. 

I'll kill him first chance I get. 

I try my damndest to get free, but struggling in my binds does little more than get a few chuckles, the more interested Khan's started shooting me gazes. Some with killing intent, others paying more attention to my torn flannel and jeans. 

Shit. 

Just as I was starting to really panic, I heard some commotion. The leader Khan's were getting anxious and pushed for this whole thing to wrap up all ready, and the fucker in the suit rolled his eyes. Said something about how he looked those he killed in the eyes, gave me a half assed "Sorry you got mixed up in this, kid." 

I'm definitely going to kill him. 

The flashy end of his engraved pistol was the last thing I saw before it all went black, nothing remained. Not even the seething rage I felt towards myself and this dolled up prick. 

I really got killed like this. Figured I'd at least go out fighting, instead of like a sick dog.  
_____

"Hey, you're finally awake. Was getting a little worried." 

Those words are the first thing I experienced coming back from the dead. The slow accented drawl was somehow comforting rather than annoying. Like an old John Wayne character.

The comfort was quickly rushed from my body, however, as I opened my eyes. Even the few bits of light filtering in from the cracked blinds damn near made my head explode from pain, like I'd just walked into a room full of standing lamps on a migraine day. 

Son of a bitch. And I figured getting shot execution style would hurt worse than something like this. 

Raising a hand to shield my eyes was much more difficult than it should have been, though I imagine I'm lucky to be able to move in any way nromally. Hell, I was lucky to even feel lucky. 

Working my dry throat to ask a question was hell, but I'm feeling more and more glad for having that ability at all. 

"H-how... Long have I... Been a-asleep?" 

I could hear the man scratch at his stubble dusted face. 

"Oh, you've been warmin that bed for the better part of a week or so. Was startin' to figure you were done for with how still you'd get." 

"Fuck..." 

After that, I just laid there in a near tortured silence. It wasn't exactly easy to process all of this, especially with the number that bullet did to whatever makes headaches a thing. Maybe it would have been easier to just let go. 

My contemplation of that deep sleep was cut short when I heard the doctor shuffle around and grab something metallic.

"Now I had to go rootin' round' yer noggin' to pick all the bits o' lead out. Did my best, but you oughta' have a look. Make sure I didn't leave anythin' out of place." 

With that, he placed what felt like some sort of high tech, old world mirror in my free hand, keeping patient even when I didn't move for a good minute or so. 

Oh well. No use just sitting here any longer. 

I braced the hand I was using to block the sun behind myself, trying to push myself up from the mattress. Turns out, I wasn't quite able to do that just yet without a little help from the doc next to me. After some struggling and a short thank you, I was now sitting up comfortably enough. And that somehow made my head feel a lot better. Maybe it has to do with the blood? 

Whatever. For now, my face. 

I'm not exactly the beauty of the Mojave, but I'm not bad looking, I'll give myself that. Sun tanned skin without much in way of freckles. Black as knight hair that is currently a mess of curls, a new buzz on the left side of my head with near healed stitches. 

Huh. Stimpaks are a hell of a thing. And I've always wanted to try that with my hair. Looks nice. 

Luckily my face was cute. Sorta plump lips, a good jaw. Sharp, gray-blue eyes. The only new addition being those stiches. It'll scar, for sure. 

But, all in all, I just look like more of a badass than ever. 

"You... know w-what, doc?" 

The bald man had a bit of concern creasing his already wrinkled face when he asked, "Yes?" 

"I think... Y-you should become... A b-barber," I said with all the sarcastic seriousness I could put into my beaten voice. 

And judging from the laugh the doc let out, my point came across. 

"Yeah, yeah. I'll keep that in mind if I ever find m'self needin' a change of career," he said with a smile. 

I smile back, a laugh that was more cough forced its way from my throat, giving the doctor a good scare and the idea to hand me a large canteen. I damn near swallow the jug itself, the water felt like some kind of healing oasis on my insides. 

Fuck this was good. 

"Slow down, now. You'll hurt yerself, pull the IV from yer arm or choke. Give me a moment." And so he took his time, making sure that I wouldn't bleed out or end up with a massive bruise when he removed the tube from my arm.

"Thank you, doc. For all this. What do I owe you?" 

The man didn't look up from his work, focused even as he responded. "Ah, you don't owe me a thing. This is what I do. And you can just call me Mitchell. But if Doc works, it works." 

"Yeah, I'll stick to Doc. Easier to remember. My name is Lynx. It's an old tribal name." 

At that, Mitchell's eyebrows rose. "Ah, a tribeswoman. Guess that explains why yer in such good shape. And how you survived that bullet." 

I smiled again. It's nice when someone appreciates your fitness. Especially coming from someone who literally makes a living from the human body. 

Conversation from there flowed easily, he asked a few questions to make sure I wasn't "Nutter than a bighorn droppin'." Even tried to use the Vig-O-Matic machine he had, but it didn't even light up. 

Too bad. I'm sure my strength and charisma would be through the roof. And considering how I survived that point blank bullet, my luck would pretty up there.

Anyway, once I was clothed with a few more pieces of metal armor than before and with my 44. on my hip, we met at the door. I was thanking Mitchell again when he handed me what looked to be a Pip-Boy. One of the older 2000's, by the looks of it. Vacuum bulbs and all. 

I've always wanted one of these things! 

"Oh my gosh, Doc! Are you sure?" 

The man has a big grin on his face, obviously enjoying my childlike joy as he rubbed his mustache. "Well, I'm not usin' it. Might as well let you have it, instead of lettin' it get all dusty and broke." 

I could only shake my head, "Mitchell, you're the best. Seriously. Bring me back from the dead, then all this? I'll definitely have to make it up to you." 

"I can tell you that we wouldn't be talking if that old robot, Victor, hadn't pulled you from yer grave. Oughta thank him." 

A robot saved me from becoming worm food, huh? Well if that isn't a damn good story to tell.

"I will. And I'll come by to visit! Hopefully without needing more brain surgery." 

At that, I open the door with a wave, optimistic that I could survive anything now. 

Well, I was optimistic. Right up until the fucking sun near killed me a second out of the door. 

"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!" 

I hold my head between my hands, looking at the ground until my eyes adjust a little more to the everlasting shithole that is the Mojave Wasteland. 

Definitely need some shades. Really dark shades. Luckily the pricks who shot me didn't take my caps. Probably too impatient or scared someone heard the shot. Whatever the case, I can easily buy some equipment. 

For now, I needed to figure out how to make it to the fucking front door before I try to do anything else. Even looking at the ground was starting to be too much for my shite eyesight. 

As though it was an answer to some unsaid prayer, a massive, blue RobCo Securitron rolled it's way right in front of me, blocking the sun from burning my retinas out. 

Why the hell has my luck been this damn good? Maybe I used up all the bad a week ago.

"Howdy, pardner! Might I say you're lookin' fit as a fiddle! Name's Victor. I'm the one pulled you from your grave." 

There was something about this hulking machine that gives me the oddest feeling. I've ran into a few Securitrons, hid from most of them. But none of them have ever put me off so badly. I'm not scared, can't be. The overly friendly cowboy on the screen just isn't that scary. 

But something just feels off. I'll have to keep my eyes on him. 

As soon as I can keep them open long enough. 

"Hey, Victor. I'm Lynx. Thank you for rescuing me. But if you wouldn't mind helping me to the general store?" 

"Sure, pardner! Not a problemo." He says, entirely too happy-go-lucky for my liking. Always hated that about most robots. Artificial kindness is just so eerie. 

No other options, though. Not without risking my shins. 

"And if you could block the sun a little more? My eyes are fucked, probably from the whole brain trauma thing." 

"Sure thing, friend. Just follow me over yonder." 

"Great. Thank you." I'm trying to keep this short. That something about Victor is eating at me a bit more than I figured it would. And luckily, he doesn't try to strike up any conversation on the way. Just helps me to the front step and stays still, catching his balance every so often. 

Fucking creepy, but whatever. He hasn't tried to kidnap me, so I'm not going into any fight-or-flight responses. 

Pushing open the door to the general store isn't exactly an easy chore. Probably a shifted frame. Not enough to seal the door, but enough so I have to put almost all of my weight into it. Eventually, it gave way, letting me inside the dark and musty building. 

The bookshelves and broken coolers don't have much. Abraxo, Fancy Ladd snacks, some assorted magazines. Nothing I need right now, my bag is already stocked on water and dry meat. 

Hopefully the owner, Chet, Doc called him, has something more behind the counter. 

"Hello there, stranger. You the one Doc Mitchell patched up?"

"Yep. That's me. Just woke up a couple hours ago, actually. And I need to pick up a thing or two before I head off. Maybe some glasses?" 

The sun baked man nodded and pointed me to what I assume is his special goods counter. Shit he doesn't leave on the shelves for everyone to just grab. 

This'll be fun.  
_____

After a while of bartering, I am now the proud owner of a pair of old patrolmen sunglasses with lenses as dark as my hair, and a busted up laser rifle. Crazy bastard wanted six hundred caps for it, and the stock is held together with tape!

I was able to talk him down, though. Only paid two hundred for both the gun and the shades. 

Which are doing wonders for my sight. I can fucking see without my eyes wanting to jump out of my sockets when walking out of the store. 

One small victory. 

Victor is gone, though. I wasn't in there for very long, maybe half an hour. So I'm not exactly sure what made him decide to move on, but at least I won't have to deal with that weird feeling he gives me. 

Another small victory. 

For now, Chet pointed me to the Saloon. I want answers, want to know where to find the son of a bitch who cheated me out of a cozy retirement. The owner, Trudy, had a little more contact with them than anyone else. Her and a girl named Sunny, apparently. 

The saloon is right next door to Chet's, so it isn't long before I'm putting more century old hinges to the test. 

The squealing protests of said hinges was enough to alarm a dog inside. My welcome to the bar was a loud bout of barking and an apologetic face. A disciplinary tone later and the dog was shushed.

"Cheyanne, stay! Don't worry, she won't bite unless I tell her to," the girl says with a sweet voice. "I'm Sunny. Sunny Smiles. Welcome to Goodsprings, stranger."

It's then that she gives me the biggest smile I've ever seen. It leaves little question as to where she got the name. If anything, it seems a bit too obvious and literal.

But hey, she's cute. I won't complain. 

"I'm Lynx, the new girl in town. Chet told me to come by, said I'd get some answers about the morons who buried me." 

Realisation is obvious on her face. "Oh, you're the one the doc fixed up. Said he was worried you weren't going to make it." 

The laugh I let out is somewhat awkward, "Yeah, he told me. Apparently I'm made of tough stuff." And, of course, I got the dumb idea to flex a little, the thick leather jacket and crude metal plating not doing much in my favor. But at least my flannel pulls up enough to show off my midriff. 

Gotta dress to kill, even in the apocalypse. Works great as a distraction, especially when I pop a couple of the top buttons.

I don't know how, but I got her to laugh just as the sound of breaking glass pierces in from the bar. A man's voice raises, threats at a surplus spilling from his lips. Those threats being enough to spur myself and Sunny into keeping the situation from getting worse.

However, it seems we're late. Said man was rushing out around the corner of the bar, giving us a glare before rushing to the front door and throwing it open, slamming said door with the same force. 

Typical wastelander. An NCR convict, even. Always picking fights. 

Who I assume to be Trudy is talking with Sunny, assuring her that everything is okay, but still concerned about the threats the man had spouted. Apparently a recent arrival, Ringo, was in high demand. And Goodsprings was given all of a day to deliver the man before a group of convicts decides to take him by force. 

Now I haven't been here very long, most of that time basically as a corpse. But I'll be damned if I let these idiots burn down Doc's home. I'm alive because of him.

And I won't let this debt go unpaid. 

"Trudy, would you mind listening to me for a second? I have an idea."  
_____

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is something completely different from pretty much any of my previous works. This is actually something I've posted before, but removed because I didn't really like how it was written. Also I'm not exactly good at keeping up with a multi-chapter story. My interest waxes and wanes often, so I found that a collection of short stories would work best. I hope you all enjoy, and leave some kudos or comments if you feel so inclined.


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